Sanctuary
by Flaignhan
Summary: It's his turn to hurt.


**A/N:** This has already done the rounds on tumblr, but I reread it a couple of times and actually rather liked it, so thought I'd add it to the collection.

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 **Sanctuary**

 **by Flaignhan**

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He waits in the dark for her. Which is, admittedly, a touch dramatic, but she must expect that of him by now, surely.

It's half past eight when he hears the key turn in the lock, inhales the scent of a meal for one from the Chinese takeaway, and hears her kick off her shoes in the hallway. Almost immediately, the tremor in his hand quells.

When she switches on the light, she lets out a little shriek, nearly dropping her dinner. Thankfully, all those years wielding a scalpel mean her reflexes are top notch, and it's something he makes a note of, and files away for future reference.

"You scared me," she breathes, and he can almost feel her heart pumping in her chest, though he senses it's not quite as rapid as his own.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He looks up at her, the skin of his throat slick with sweat, and the glare from the light makes him squint. Upon getting a good look at him, she must make her own rapid deductions, because she dumps her takeaway on the coffee table, and switches on the floor lamp, before she heads back to the doorway to flip the light switch off.

"Have you taken anything?" she asks, avoiding his gaze. Apparently she wants to hear it from his own mouth before she gauges whether he's lying or not.

"No," he says, pulling at his shirt collar. "That's the problem."

She glances at him, her eyes fixed on his for just a moment, before she heads over to the window and slides it open, allowing a chilly breeze to sweep through the room, soothing his prickly skin.

"Can I get you anything? Or d'you just need to wait it out?"

"I need you," he says, each word uttered slowly, and deliberately, as though his mouth is trying to crowbar each syllable from his brain, "to make sure that I don't...misbehave."

"Have you got anything on you?"

He nods towards the coffee table, where he has placed the slim black box that is the carrier of his sins. He has been staring at it for the past hour, and it's only for the fact of him being in Molly's flat that he hasn't dared touch it. If he ever got high in her flat, that would be the end of everything. She would never stand for that.

She picks up the box with gentle fingers, her thumb running along the chrome edge.

"Don't open it."

"I won't."

She keeps a hold of it, then looks down at the small white carrier bag containing her sweet and sour chicken, her egg fried rice, and her prawn crackers.

"Are you hungry? We can sh-"

"No. Thank you."

"Nausea?" she asks. She moves the bag away from him, and the scent of it lessens.

"A little."

She nods, picks up the carrier bag, his coat, which he has strewn carelessly across the back of the sofa, and, with the black case still tucked under her arm, she heads towards the kitchen.

"Don't get rid of it," he calls after her, twisting in his seat so his eyes can follow her journey. "I need it."

"I'll put it somewhere safe," she calls back, and he hears her open and close just about every cupboard door she has. He knows, at least, that it won't be in the kitchen cupboards.

She's gone for a few minutes, but it feels like an age as he watches the second hand of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece tick around and around. He hopes she gets back soon, so that time speeds up again, and he can fast forward to a point in his life where he doesn't feel like this.

He remembers nicotine patches, and how much he used to complain about them. He didn't realise at the time just how good he had it.

When she returns, she has a glass of lemonade for him, a cup of tea for herself, and a faint golden smudge of peanut butter on her lower lip. She's had a hasty sandwich in the kitchen, instead of eating a proper dinner, just because of him.

He's lucky. And he knows that now.

He leans forward and picks up his glass with a shaky hand. The small sip doesn't feel great at first, but they've been here before, and he knows it will do him good. He keeps his mouth shut, and doesn't complain, because he has no right to, not to her, when she has given him so much.

He fidgets in the chair, muscles twitching, veins itching for that forbidden elixir. He tries to forget that it's hidden somewhere in the flat - out of sight is most definitely _not_ out of mind.

"D'you need to lie down?" she asks, looking at him across the rim of her teacup.

"I don't know," he says, and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip so that he has something else to concentrate on, just for a moment, just for one millisecond of relief from this constant, burning need.

"You can have the bed if you want," she says, her voice soft. "Or the sofa, I don't mind."

He smiles faintly, because of _course_ she doesn't mind. She never minds. He casts his eyes up to the ceiling, his fingertips digging into the arms of his chair, knuckles popping under the skin.

He can't take it. A glass of lemonade and a night of _this_ ahead; he cannot bear another moment.

He jumps to his feet, pacing around the lounge, breezing past the bookcase, his eyes fixed on the kitchen before he turns sharply because he cannot do that to her, not here, and not now.

"Sherlock, sit down." She is the calm at the eye of the storm, her hands ever steady, her gaze unflinching.

"I can't do this," he tells her, and he tugs at his hair because his brain feels like it's about to _explode_ all over her pastel furnishings. "I need to go," he tells her, his voice weak now. His lungs feel deflated, his brow heavy and hot. He wants to jump into the Thames, but he's not entirely sure he wants to come back up.

"Sit down," she says again, her calming tone never faltering.

"It _hurts_ ," he snaps, the ire escaping him before he can reel it in. She doesn't flinch, she doesn't appear to be affected by his mood swings at all.

"Good," she says coolly. "Because it hurts every time I see you high. It's your turn."

He has no answer to that, and he feels the muscles in his face slacken with the paralysing truth of her words. He walks around to the front of the sofa and throws himself down on it. He kicks his shoes off and brings his feet up to rest at one end, and gently lowers his head into her lap. She lifts her arms to make room - one finding a new home along the back of the sofa, the other curving round so her fingers are in a prime spot for her to gently play with his hair.

The motion is soothing, and Sherlock closes his eyes, picturing her slender fingers moving tenderly through his locks. He is sure it's hypnotic, because the tension in him lessens (though never truly goes away) and his temperature, despite the added heat of being this close to another person, is easier to contend with as well.

He knows that the others would do what they could to help him through these patches, but he can never find solace in them in quite the same way as he can with Molly. There is something in the way that she responds to him, in the way that she doesn't come after him, but is always there, should he come for her. He doesn't feel the same pressure here as he does elsewhere, even though it's her whom he fears letting down the most. John would be pissed off and Mycroft has seen far worse, but Molly...she holds him to a higher standard, she expects the best of him and is only ever dealt the worst.

She lets him lay in silence too.

Her hand breaks away from his hair and he misses the contact immediately. She reaches towards the side table, picking up a paperback and passing it to her other hand, opening it up to the marked page, before her left hand returns to his hair once again.

"Settling in for the night?" he asks quietly.

She smiles, but doesn't say anything, her eyes moving steadily over the yellowed pages. Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to get his lungs into rhythm with hers, a steady rise and fall that makes him think of the washing of the tide. He can't keep the poison from his hands however; his fingers tapping rapidly against his thighs, his palms sweaty against the cotton of his trousers.

"I'm glad you're here," she tells him.

"Sorry?" He thinks he's misunderstood her, because she can't possibly be _glad_ to have an addict break into her flat and expect her to babysit. Not when she's had to ditch her takeaway for his sake.

"I'm glad you're here," she repeats. "I'd much rather you come here when you're struggling so I can help. There's no dignity in struggling alone."

He wants to bite out a sarcastic 'you're welcome' but he knows that's the sour attitude of his addiction. He has no idea how to respond to that.

"You can come here any time."

"I know." The words come out too quickly, and they sound presumptuous, as though he feels he doesn't need an invitation, but she doesn't show any sign of offence. There's a gentle sweep of her thumb across his temple, and he thinks, not for the first time, that her hands are far too soothing to be wasted on the dead.

"Good," she says. "I'm glad."

Her attention returns to her book, and his to the inside of his eyelids. The flutter of turning pages must lull him to sleep, because he only counts sixteen before he is awoken by the chirping of birds, and the first orange rays of sunlight creeping across the floor.

He looks up at Molly, who has dark circles under her eyes, her elbow propped on the arm of the sofa, head resting against her fist. Her book is splayed open on Sherlock's chest, her thumb tucked between the pages, marking her place. He carefully extracts it from her loose grip, pops the bookmark into place, and reaches across to the coffee table, his arm just about long enough to push the book onto the tabletop. He extends his fingers a fraction further, and manages to catch the edge of his phone, pulling it closer, before he is able to pick it up properly and check his messages.

Lestrade has been in touch, and the case doesn't sound thrilling, but it's enough to be getting on with. Sherlock sits up, drops his phone into his lap, and ruffles his hair in attempt to shake the sleep from his brain. He takes his glass of lemonade and drinks deeply, the bubbles now thankfully gone, while the sugar is necessary and the lemon calming for his stomach.

He needs to get a move on if he wants a good look at the crime scene, and so he stands up, stretches, his fingertips grazing the Artex ceiling, before heading to the bathroom to get himself in a vaguely presentable state.

The spare toothbrush is still sitting in the mug next to the sink, though the mug has been changed for one with a cartoon ginger cat on it. Perhaps she keeps his toothbrush there because, in his current state, she is expecting him to be a more permanent fixture in her flat.

She could be right.

There's a can of deodorant in the mirror cabinet which he's fairly sure she purchased from the corner shop last time he dropped in on her. The small, peeling price sticker confirms this, and he wonders, his memory unwelcomely hazy, as to whether she still has the shirt that he vomited all over the time before last.

A quick check of the airing cupboard gleans a laundered, if slightly wrinkly, black shirt. Leaving a change of clothes here strikes him as admitting defeat, but he's quite sure she'd call it pragmatic.

She's still asleep when he returns to the lounge, and he pads quietly into the kitchen, eyeing the coffee before deciding that the racket of the kettle will wake her, and he can just as easily get something from the Pret on the main road, even if that does involve talking to other people.

He checks the bread bin initially, and then inside the oven and the microwave, with no luck. He lifts the upturned washing up bowl, but there's only a blurry reflection looking back at him from the stainless steel.

It must be in the kitchen somewhere, because she didn't go anywhere else - she didn't go to the bathroom, nor her bedroom, and she certainly didn't have it when she came back to the lounge. He tries the cupboards, careful to keep noise to a minimum, just in case she was trying to pull a double bluff on him.

Despite his irritation growing with the length of his search, he is slightly impressed with her ability to hide his kit so well in such a tiny kitchen. He checks the fridge, and the small freezer above, but with no luck. He checks under the sink, squinting at the gaps between bottle of bleach and cans of air freshener.

"Have you tried looking in your coat?"

He starts at the sound of her voice, whacking the crown of his head on the underside of the kitchen counter. Molly hisses with empathy, rushing forward to inspect the afflicted area.

"You okay?" she asks.

" _Fine_ ," he says, waving her away so he can stand up. He pushes the cupboard door closed and frowns down at her. "My coat?"

She shrugs. He sidesteps around her and looks down the hallway to see his coat hanging on the hook next to hers. He reaches it in two long strides, his hands feeling the pockets for the familiar burden.

"My coat," he says again.

She shrugs. Again. "You'd have torn my kitchen apart if you'd carried on like that," she says.

She is far more cunning than she looks, with those big innocent eyes and ditsy print blouses. After all this time, he should know better.

"Lestrade's got a case," he says, moving past her so he can go back to the sofa and put his shoes on. "It's only about a four but it'll do."

"Murder?" she asks.

He nods, screwing up his face as his body protests at him leaning forward to tie his laces. He's still not right, but he's better, and he's got something to occupy him for at least five minutes. He'll take the five minutes after that as it comes.

Soon enough, he is at the door, pulling on his coat and adjusting the collar.

"Thank you for..." he trails off. He never knows how to refer to this. She doesn't make him finish his sentence.

"You're welcome."

He nods, inhaling a large breath, still waiting for something to kick in and get him started. He's not sure it will come. He leans forward, one hand on Molly's shoulder, and presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

"Go and get some sleep," he tells her, guilt squirming inside of him at the sight of her bloodshot eyes. He doesn't want to think about how long he might have kept her awake last night. He's a restless sleeper at the best of times. The worst of times must leave a lot to be desired.

He steps out into the hallway, realising too late that he has patted the pocket containing his kit. Her eyes linger on his hand. Even running on a few hours' sleep, she's noticed.

"I'll see you later," he says, and she nods while doing her best to stifle a yawn.

"Yeah, see you," she says, leaning against the edge of the door as he starts towards the lift. "Don't let me down."

He looks over his shoulder, and her gaze is as serious as he has ever seen it. He nods, then hurries towards the lift, pummelling the button as soon as he reaches it.

Once he's safely inside and descending to the ground floor, Sherlock grips his hair, sinking to his knees. She knows what those words will do to him, when uttered from her mouth. In Mycroft's mouth, they would be dismissed, in John's mouth, they might elicit a modicum of effort, but in Molly's mouth, those words are law.

The chill of the morning is welcome on his clammy skin, and he crosses the road, his legs taking long strides to get him from one sanctuary to another. He is more aware of the weight in his pocket than ever, and he knows what he must do, even though he can barely summon the courage to do it.

He takes it from his pocket, and holds it in his hands for a good quarter of a mile, before tossing it into a freshly emptied bin and hailing a taxi to whisk him away. The thunk as it lands at the bottom of the bin is, to him, the final nail in his coffin, but he's certain Molly would come up with a far more beautiful metaphor than that.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
